Zan
by JerzeyGirl
Summary: It's fifteen years since Zan was given up by his teenaged father, and his life has been pretty normal. But when his mother is murdered under mysterious circumstances, Zan starts a search for his biological parents, who may hold the answer to his mother's
1. Stars

The stars were unusually bright tonight, the new moon allowing its tiny fellows a chance  
to shine. Sam panned his telescope slowly across the night sky, allowing it to rest as always on  
the constellation Aries. He didn't know why, but it always seemed comforting to him somehow,  
and just a bit familiar. The little jewels twinkled merrily, yet innocently, telling him nothing.   
  
A shout from the direction of the house broke his thoughts. Zan Walker, called Sam by  
his friends, family, and anyone who knew him well enough to know he hated his real name,  
looked up from his telescope and sighed. He knew his mom meant well, but she could be so  
overprotective at times. She'd gotten worse ever since his dad had split three years ago, when  
Sam was 12. He had always traveled a lot for business, and seemed to be getting more distant  
every year. When one day he met an "old friend" for dinner and never came home, neither Sam  
nor his mother, Christina, were really surprised. In an effort to preserve the little bit of family  
she had left, Christina had held onto Sam's leash with a death grip, and it seemed to shorten each  
year, while his friends' got a little longer. Sixteen was looming on Sam's horizon, but he wasn't  
quite sure how his mom would react to the notion of driving, as she still wouldn't let him ride his  
bicycle at night.   
  
The shout came again, a little more urgent this time, and Sam packed up his telescope,  
slinging the pack over his shoulder and making his way through the patch of trees that separated  
his house from the field where he did his star-gazing. The darkness under the trees was absolute,  
like wearing a blindfold, but Sam had walked the path enough times he could easily make his  
way without a flashlight. He was almost to the end of the path when a blinding light banished  
the darkness with a suddenness that made Sam flinch as a sharp pain flashed behind his eyes. It  
was so bright that he probably would have been able to see better in the dark. As suddenly as it  
had come the light disappeared, leaving Sam even blinder than before as spots danced in front of  
his eyes. He could hear someone moving very quickly through the little wood, though, and fear's  
icy hand gripped his heart as he ran the rest of the way to the house.  
  
Sam pushed open the unlocked door, his mother never left the door unlocked after dark,  
and called out to the seemingly empty house. "Mom! Mom, are you in here?" He ran upstairs to  
her bedroom. The door was open a crack, and he stood outside it a few moments, scared of what  
he might find when he opened it. Stop being a baby, and just open the door for god sakes. Sam  
opened the door, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when he saw Christina curled up on her bed,  
in her pajamas, fast asleep. The book she had been reading was still in her relaxed hand. She  
looked so peaceful and content, an expression she only wore in sleep, especially since his father  
left. He crossed the room and kissed her goodnight on her forehead.   
  
Her skin was cold.  
  
The fear broke open the dam for the second time that night as he realized she wasn't  
breathing. Sam turned her over and checked for a pulse. Nothing. Nothing! Panic joined the  
fear as he scrambled to his mom's bedside phone and dialed 911. "Hello?" He managed when  
someone answered. "Hello? I think, I mean, my mom..." He trailed off, afraid that if he voiced  
his fear it would be set as reality.   
  
"Sir?" The woman on the line had the characteristic soothing voice of someone who dealt  
with emergencies. "Sir, calm down and tell me the problem."  
  
"I think...I think my mom is..is dead. She's all cold and she's not breathing or anything  
and...." Sam's voice failed him again.   
  
"Okay, sir, a team has already been sent to your home, just stay calm, and keep talking to  
me, okay? Can you do that?"  
  
Sam was breathing so heavily he thought his lungs would burst. He couldn't tear his eyes  
off of his mother, still looking so peaceful. Wasn't there anything he could do? "Uh, yeah..." he  
said to the woman on the phone, as it set it back into its cradle. CPR, right? He could do CPR,  
he'd seen it on movies and stuff, and he did take that class in Boy Scouts a few years ago, before  
his mom made him quit. He climbed onto the bed, and opened his mom's nightshirt, ready to try  
his hardest. He never started, though. Later he would try not to admit to himself that he was  
scared to touch her, but right now the silver hand print shimmering on her chest just shocked and  
confused him. He didn't even hear the phone, no doubt 911 calling back so he wouldn't try  
anything stupid, but just went to the window, and looked at the stars. They no longer looked that  
innocent. 


	2. Shock

Authors Note: Sorry it's taking me forever to post, I've been busy. This is my first fic, so please bear with me. Any advice or criticism is very welcome, bring it on. This chapter's not quite as action-packed as the first, but I'm not positive where I'm going yet, so I'm taking it slow. Any suggestions are welcome also. Ok, I think that's it. Enjoy!  
  
Sam sat huddled in the corner as he watched the EMT's take his mother away. In a body bag. One of the technicians was sitting with him, saying something, what, he didn't know. The words were just part of the buzzing that filled the room, filled his head. All he could see was that hand print. Why was it there? Who had caused it? What could they have done to cause a silver print on his mom's chest? Rape? But she had looked so peaceful...she had to have died in her sleep. Unless the killer had knocked her out before he had raped her, now there's an idea! But no, there were no real signs of rape anyway, except for the print. And why? What was the reason for killing her? What was the motive? And why the hell was it silver?  
  
There was no real evidence of murder, except for the hand print, which was not really illuminating. But there was no doubt in Sam's mind, as he thought in circles, flipping through the events of the evening, his shocked brain focused on one thing and one thing only. Who? Who killed his mother? If that could be answered, all the other pieces would fall into place, all the other questions would be answered. And Sam knew the answer to that question, at least part of it. He knew that her killer was whoever had been in the woods that night, whoever ha made that bright light. But besides that, he knew nothing. That little tidbit answered no questions.  
  
A man walked into the room, along with two cops who both looked rather uneasy. The man, however, seemed confident, even unconcerned, as he surveyed the barely controlled chaos in the bedroom. He whispered something to one of the cops, who nodded, before walking over to the corner where Sam still sat, his scrambled mind desperately trying to block out reality. He was brought back, however, by the man's crisp, no-nonsense voice.  
  
"Hi! I'm Detective Jenson," he said, sticking out his hand. It remained unshaken. "I was wondering if you could tell me what happened here?"  
  
Sam looked up at him, bewildered, as if he'd entered the room for the first time. The technician sitting with him gave the detective a dirty look. "Can't you give him some time?" she whispered, as if trying to keep Sam from hearing, though he was sitting right next to her. "He just lost his mother!"  
  
Detective Jenson sighed, and, trying to sound sympathetic, he addressed Sam again with a kind smile. "I know this is hard for you, son, but I need to know what you know, and if you don't tell me now..." Jenson swallowed a few mild threats he usually used in these types of situations. "...it will just be harder to tell me later."  
  
There was no response from Sam. His eyes had become glassy and guarded again. Jenson clenched his teeth and tried to hide his exasperation. He sympathized with the kid, he really did. He'd lost his father just last year, to lung cancer. It had been quick, when they found the tumor he only had a few weeks to live. Not quite the same, but he knew what it was like to lose a parent. But it was going to make his life and job a lot harder if the kid refused to speak. "Look, kid, anything you could tell us would really help in the investigation. I mean, there's no evidence of foul play yet, the coroner is going to check her system for poison, which is our best guess right now, but as far as we know, she could have died of a heart attack..."  
  
"She didn't have a heart attack!" Sam suddenly screamed, leaping to his feet. "She was murdered, and I know who did it! It was the person in the woods! The one with the light!"  
  
The detective stepped back at this outburst, as a fire had sparked in the boy's eyes. At least it had cracked his shell. "Whoa, slow down. What light?"  
  
Sam calmed down enough to relate the story of the bright light and the person in the woods to the detective. "...and afterwards I couldn't see anything for a few seconds, so I never actually saw them, but I heard them running away."  
  
"How do you know this person killed your mother?"  
  
Sam faltered at the question, blinking. "Well, it's obvious, isn't it? I mean two weird things, this light and this...hand print, and the only connection is the person in the woods."  
  
"But they're not connected to the hand print. And how do you know the light wasn't just a flashlight?"  
  
Rational thought started to once again settle in Sam's mind, and he caught the edge of skepticism in the detective's voice and eyes. 'He thinks I'm crazy', Sam thought. "It wasn't a flashlight." he said adamantly. "Besides, why would someone be out in the woods at night anyway?"  
  
Jenson seemed to consider this. "Good point," he said. "What were you doing out there?"  
  
A second shock hit Sam as he realized what the detective was implying. 'No,' he thought, mentally correcting himself. 'He doesn't think I'm crazy. He thinks I'm guilty.' 


	3. Runaway

Author's Note: I know it's taking me forever to post chapters, but my muse had decided to take a long winter break and I had to whip her back into shape. Inspiration is a fickle thing. Anyway, thanks for your reviews, very encouraging, and your patience. Hopefully the next chapter will come quicker!  
  
  
  
"We got a new runaway today. A boy, about 15, I believe. Not very remarkable, he refuses to talk about himself, but we get withdrawn kids all the time. We tested him, no drug use, I suppose maybe that's remarkable. You haven't heard a word I've said have you?" Laura Stanton sighed in frustration as she looked over the top of her wine glass at her best friend, who seemed to be looking out the window. His glass was empty, she noted. She wondered casually how many times it had been emptied already that day.  
  
"Snap out of it!" she said, throwing a couch pillow at him. He looked up, jarred back to reality, and looking a bit confused.  
  
"Sorry, Lar," he said, looking sheepish. "Daydreaming, I guess. What were you saying?"  
  
Laura smiled at the man on the other end of the couch, her best friend, her lover. He was always daydreaming, and she knew what about, too. She knew the death of his wife still pained him, even though it had been over a decade since it had occurred. Apparently, they had been married only a few months when a horrific car crash had claimed her life. When he had come to live in her neighborhood all those years ago, with the grief still fresh and the tears still wet, they had immediately bonded. Laura helped him through that first, hardest year with experience born of her work at the runaway shelter. They were the best of friends after that, though it was another three years before they had become lovers. There had been a brief period a few years after that, when she thought they would marry. But he never asked, and she eventually came to realize and accept that he wasn't going to. She knew he loved her, but he was still holding onto something, something she could not make him let go. Something she knew he never would.   
  
"I was saying, while you were off in an alternate universe, that we got a new kid in at the shelter. A quiet boy, very reluctant to discuss anything about himself. We could hardly get his name out of him."  
  
"What is his name?" Jesse asked.  
  
"Glad to see you've joined the conversation. His name is Sam. He wouldn't tell me his last name, though he did say that Sam wasn't his real name. It was something weird, Zan, I think. Flower child parents, most likely."  
  
Jesse chuckled. "Yeah, I'm sure you're right. Zan, huh? That's interesting..." He trailed off, and Laura could see something in his mind had lit up. It was a look he got in his eyes whenever a puzzle came along, whenever something intrigued him.  
  
"Why?" she asked him.  
  
"Why what?"  
  
"Why is it interesting?"  
  
He shrugged. "Just the name, I suppose. I mean, that's rather different even for a hippie. It's just odd, that's all." He gave her a little smile, but she didn't buy it at all. He looked way too innocent. Jesse had never been a good liar.  
  
"Come on, spill it!" she said. "You're hiding something. Tell Miss Laura what it is."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
Laura put on an exasperated expression. "Look, we've been together for what, eleven years? Longer if you count our 'friend' time. I think I'm a pretty good judge of whether or not you're telling the truth. Now, what's up?"  
  
Jesse smiled at her, a smile touched with just a trace of sadness. "It's nothing really. The name just sounded familiar, that's all."  
  
Laura was pretty sure there was more to it, but she knew when to push and when to let nature work on it's own. He would tell her eventually, just not tonight. She did have one question, though. "It doesn't have anything to do with...her, does it?"  
  
Jesse almost seemed surprised by the question. "No, not really. Like I said, it's not a big deal." He leaned back against the arm of the couch, contemplating. "However, would you mind if I paid this kid a visit?" 


End file.
